


i got bugs on my skin, tickle my nausea

by Bradsucks



Series: the enmity of death in a wire cage [1]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Alternative Universe - Zombie Character, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 22:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20682827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bradsucks/pseuds/Bradsucks
Summary: tord is dead, vlahd talks to his corpse





	i got bugs on my skin, tickle my nausea

he had only seen red. for eons, the hue festered like maggots on the concave chest of a carcass, living in the cold cocoon of death. deliberately and tenderly, he loses sight of the other hues life has to offer -- slitting his tongue to try and see blue mercury ooze down in thick spheres,  _ /too late, too late/ _ \-- and finds himself locked in shades of red. a speckle of orange in hemorrhaging pomegranate was a miracle to be praised. he drowned in it.

astray in the crimson smoke that only went out of the cigarette, permanently floating away, tord lets his mind deflate, hurriedly slots capsules in his bisecting mouth, and throws his voice. is the margin thirty to forty pills good enough to make a printable obituary? when vlahd finds him, it is a sunday routine on a saturday.

“well, at least the carpet is clean this time” vlahd grumbles in low appreciation, like an owner unearthing some validation to give the cat as the dead mouse swelters on mahogany post, bubbling in midsummer heat. he picks up the wrinkled plastic bag, marshy with sweat and salt tears, and continues to clean around the catatonic body.

tord’s eyelids nicated, eyes sheathed in pink luster, tapeworms swimming in the iris.  _ /asshole, you don’t even care, this is housework now, cunt, bastard/ _ his incisors gleam like beetle shells, twitching on the golden ringlets of perisan wool - taken straight from the grasp of a man shot in the back, given as a present. grasshopper legs broken from taut nerves and spider hands bent like a toothpick between yellow enamel. he is merely a squish insect.

stomp on him hard enough, 

he might just make a sound,

but vlahd’s ears are only cotton swabs taped to a fishbowl. 

those red moons shudder, watching him kneel down to gather vestiges of his lonesome tea party with a cynical bunny. white not-mints are cradled with two void syringes in his callous hand, discarded into wet plastic. dick could not had thrown one better than this, so tord tries to move the dead mole in his mouth, flap the steak to lure the shark’s beady eyes, to his lover. yet, his tongue is paralyzed with the rest of him.  _ /vlahd, did i ever tell you, you look like my dear old mother? she once left me in a supermarket. you resemble her so well, darling/--  _ his bruised lips spasms with each quarter second with his ceramic lashes.

vlahd gives the vomit on the floor a dour look. in a brisk fall, he moves like fabric rippling in sodium waves and drapes his three fingers to linoleum flooring, pensile coat like fruit-bat wings. juices of blood cupcake is sponged up by his digits. before standing, the russian stops. two headlights of red turn towards him with sudden vigor. “why do you do it,” he asks. “it can’t be for attention, you have the earth’s eyes in bijoux boxes. there is no gain, only lose. do, do you just enjoy losing?”

sometimes, tord thinks this method isn’t helping vlahd really understand - he cannot yet grasp the meaningless objectiveness of life, the universal shackles, restrained by each breath to discover the nebula of death, the brutal enmity of fear. he’s close, one foot in the grave and another stubbornly in earth. join the rot! then, when wires encase him like a pearl and his veins tingle with life, the progress is gone. 

“do you just like dying everyday?”

_ /my dear old mother once burnt my right hand with an ironer, torrid gray steel on veins and flesh, my blood bubbling like gumbo. makes me smack my lips in hunger. you should had met her, vlahd! what a woman!/ _

a wet diamond plops on confetti.

tord closes his eyes; sees black.


End file.
